


The Wheel

by mercurysmoon



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/F, F/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-02
Updated: 2020-07-14
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:41:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25024831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mercurysmoon/pseuds/mercurysmoon
Summary: He took one final glance at her – the woman who'd been his pawn, the one that had done what he'd wanted without him telling her to - the one who turned around to cross the chess board and become the queen right under his nose. A small smile grazed his lips as he noted, that Petyr Baelish wasn’t as easy to kill as she would have hoped.
Relationships: Arya Stark/Gendry Waters, Jon Snow/Margaery Tyrell, Jorah Mormont/Daenerys Targaryen, Petyr Baelish/Sansa Stark, Sandor Clegane/Sansa Stark, Yara Greyjoy/Daenerys Targaryen
Comments: 9
Kudos: 37





	1. the Mockingbird

Her name used to roll of his tongue with such ease, but now he was choking on the words. He was left breathless as the red blood flowed over the stone tiles, painting the ground in crimson patterns. It was stupid to stay around, but he couldn’t look away. Petyr felt a primitive need to stay and watch as the scene unfolded. He couldn’t look at it – he only watched her, trying to find something in her eyes that would reveal what she was thinking. Not that it mattered much now, anyways. 

He took a glance at her – the woman who'd been his pawn, the one that had done what he'd wanted without him telling her to - the one who turned around to cross the chess board and become the queen right under his nose. She bore the same red hair and pale skin as the day he’d met her, but her eyes were different now. How could he have missed it for so long? 

She’d been a young girl, in love with the idea of love – her eyes that had once been filled with excitement and adoration, were filled with ice. She was cold and calculated, and he was proud of her. The red wolf, his sweet Sansa… the woman who had her sister slit his throat. 

Petyr felt conflicting feelings in his being as he watched the blood again. He couldn’t deny the pride, just like he couldn’t deny the burning hatred leaving his eyes narrowing at the sight of her. He saw his own body dropping to the ground, and he allowed himself one final look at her. She didn’t tear her eyes away from him – she watched him bleed and die, and she didn’t look away. 

He corrected the coat on his back, making sure the hood covered his head enough if he had any run-ins with anyone he shouldn’t. He looked away from the Stark woman, turning around and walking away from the hall, leaving the room behind him. A small smile grazed his lips as he noted, that Petyr Baelish wasn’t as easy to kill as she’d hoped.


	2. the Runaway

“A rider has come for you, my lady,” called a voice behind Sansa. She nodded her head but didn’t yet lift her gaze from the parchment in front of her. She carefully finished her signature on the letter before placing the quill in the ink pot, glancing over her shoulder at maester Wolkan, who held a concerned expression on his face.

“Who is it, maester?” she asked, granting the maester her attention.

“They wouldn’t say, my lady. They wanted you to greet them yourself.” Sansa nodded, turning her attention back to the desk, and a small piece of paper that sat in its upper corner. It was darkened and dry, and the ink had grown dull with time, but the sigil decorating it was still clear as day to her. A small sliver of hope filled her, and soon she stood.

“Of course,” she said, nodding her head at maester Wolkan, before walking with him towards the gates of Winterfell.

Maester Wolkan wasn’t the talkative kind, but he was pure-hearted and cunning – Sansa was grateful to have him at her side, and to know the extents of his loyalty. They walked in silence for a while before the maester excused himself, to tend to his work. He had a lot to do these days, as most people around the castle did.

Sansa remembered when she’d arrived at Winterfell, years earlier. She’d been naïve, though she hadn’t known it herself, when she blindly followed lord Baelish at his every command. She’d let herself trust him, believe he wanted the best for her – for a sliver of a second, she’d even believed that he’d cared for her.

Sansa looked around her, realizing how different her home felt to when she was a child. She’d once walked these hallways and felt warm, and safe. She’d come to realize that nowhere was safe anymore, not even her home. Threats closed in on her from all directions, and at times she’d find herself grasping for the safety she’d once known, only to realize she was grasping at illusions she’d let herself be fooled by. Sansa was no fool, and she’d realized that now.

Outside the castle the wind blew cold, and every day the temperature dropped. She remembered the warmth of Kings Landing, how the sun felt upon her skin, and the soft wind that would move the smooth fabric of her dress. The heat had been uncommon, but it had grown on her over the years, and she could miss it at times. Though she knew the cold was in her blood, and she was a Stark – Winterfell was her home, and the cold was her friend.

She heard voices come from the gate, and she could see the silhouette of a small horse behind the wall of northerners guarding the castle. She felt power soar through her veins when the guards turned at the sight of her, straightening out and lining up for her arrival. “My lady,” one said, while another greeted her with “lady Stark.” She nodded at them, moving forward with a quickened pace. Her coat dragged in the snow beneath her, creating a trail after her. She watched the impatient horse outside the walls, seeing how it stepped around carefully over the white ground. The rider wore a heavy hood, draped over the head, but not even the darkest fabric could hide the brown locks that curled beneath the fabric.

Sansa stopped just a few feet away from the horse, looking up at the rider with a gleam in her eyes. She smiled, thinking of the rose on her desk, that had served as her hope for so long. “An awfully small travelling company for a queen, don’t you think?”

She heard a slight chuckle come from the lips of the woman, before she dropped the hood from her head. Beautiful as Sansa remembered, though worn and tired. She was dressed inconspicuously, more so than Sansa had ever seen. “I do believe I have been stripped of that title, I’m afraid,” Lady Margaery said, her voice soft and kind.

Sansa remembered the day the raven came with the message, and once again, the phrase that always seemed to repeat itself whenever she got bad news with the ravens played in her head. _Dark wings, dark words_ , as old Nan always said. She’d wept for Margaery, remembering her as her closest friend her days in the capital. Kind, always holding good advice – she’d cared for Sansa, and truly, that was all she’d ever needed.

When the news of the leak of wildfire in Kings Landing arrived, Sansa had been shocked. She’d always thought Margaery was good, and a true queen, though she realized the Tyrell had been playing a game of her own that Sansa hadn’t seen. Months had passed and she’d grown more and more accustomed with what had happened, until a raven appeared in Winterfell. It had carried only a small piece of parchment, with the rose of the Tyrell sigil on it, and with that, Sansa had known immediately. Margaery had escaped the sept, and was on her way to her. Now she stood in front of her, her hands on the reigns of her horse and with a smile on her face.

“Now, what should we do about that?”

They walked together towards the castle, a slow stroll seemed to almost naturally settle between them, like they used to. Sansa felt giddy at the thought of her friend whom she’d missed for so many years, whom she’d mourned and grieved and prayed for. Margaery Tyrell was a force to be reckoned with, and Sansa knew that the two of them were stronger together. After everything Cersei had put them through over the years, they would feed each other’s vengeance.

“You made it home again,” Margaery said, glancing over at Sansa with a small smirk that so often seemed to decorate her pointed face. “I’m glad, Sansa.”

“I did, with the help of lord Baelish,” she said, thinking of him for just a moment. She wouldn’t ever admit that she had eyes that haunted her, and that his pair of grey eyes were one of them. She would think of Petyr as a manipulator, a deceiver, an enemy of her family – she scolded herself mentally, allowing herself to call him by his first name. “He was at least successful in that department.”

“I heard whispers of who you were wed to,” Margaery said, glancing at Sansa who appeared different to her. She’d grown up, sure, but there was something else – she looked hardened, colder, and Margaery’s mind drifted to what she’d heard of the northerners before she met them – cold, harsh and tough. The north lived in Sansa, and Sansa seemed to truly live in the north.

“He got what he deserved,” she said, keeping her gaze forward as they walked through the doors to the castle, inside the heated hallways. “What about your family?” Sansa spoke, glancing over at Margaery who instinctively shook her head.

“I got my father out, Loras wouldn’t move. In the end, my father was hit with the rubble from the explosion, and got trapped. Instead of letting him stay in the sept and have him die painless and quickly, he was tortured, hurt and scared,” Margaery said, a bitter expression on her face. She hadn’t yet dealt with the extent of her grief – instead it fueled her anger, her will to avenge them. She briefly thought of her grandmother, and wondered where Olenna was being held. Having been on the road for so long, she knew nothing of anything.

“You tried to save his life, don’t blame yourself for it,” Sansa said, shaking her head. “I’m sure lord Tyrell was grateful for what you did. Truth be told, you managed to ruin Cersei’s plan completely.”

“I suppose that is true. I dream of the day I get to look her in the eye, see the realization dawn over her that she’s not only dead, but a failure,” Margaery said, glancing ahead of her at the grand castle. She’d never before been so far north, but she truly had no idea where to go besides to Sansa when she fled. She knew she’d be safe in Winterfell, by the side of the woman she’d grown so close to over their years in Kings Landing. “Well, I suppose you’re the lady of Winterfell now.”

“Only in Jon’s absence – he’s been named king in the North, and I stand by him,” she said, though her face was stern. She’d found a new and strong love for her brother, though she couldn’t help but to question his judgement at times. Sansa couldn’t help but to feel an odd sensation of jealousy of her brother when Littlefinger grazed her mind – he truly knew what she wanted, even though she didn’t want to admit it herself. Margaery noticed the bitter tone in Sansa’s voice, but she chose not to mention it.

“Where is your brother?” Margaery asked with a certain curiosity, to which Sansa shrugged her shoulders.

“He went north to organize the defense against the dead,” Sansa said, unbeknownst to her causing a shiver to go down Margaery’s spine. It was still new to the queen, and she had a hard time wrapping her mind around the fact that an army of dead was walking towards them. She knew she’d came to a dangerous place, but she bitterly realized that any place in the world was dangerous to her – if anyone found out she was alive, she’d have a target on her back, and would be dead within short anyways.

“Terrifying thought,” Margaery said, making eye contact with Sansa for a moment. “War is closing in from all directions.” 

"Jon wants to travel and join forces with the dragon-queen,” Sansa said, catching Margaery’s attention. She’d heard of the queens rise to power just a couple weeks earlier from a reliable source, and she couldn’t help but to be intrigued by the sound of her. “I don’t think he realizes that he can’t ask her to come here and fight the dead – she will want something in return, and I know that is going to be something that I’m not willing to grant her.”

“She does have a strong claim to the throne,” Margaery said, but Sansa shrugged it off.

“Many people have a strong claim to the throne – Robert Baratheon’s bastard son, Stannis, you – none of that matters anymore. I know who I want to see on the throne,” Sansa said with a pointed look to Margaery, who smiled grandly at her. Truth be told, Margaery had spent a lot of time thinking during her escapade, all alone on the roads of the seven kingdoms. She wanted to be good – she decided to be after her days with the High Sparrow, atoning her sins. The part of her that still wanted to be queen, believed she would be a good one. The other part of her wasn’t so sure it was in her destiny anymore.

“Are you planning to marry a northern lord, then?” Margaery suggested with a light voice in an attempt to change the subject, to which Sansa huffed.

“I’ll never marry again,” Sansa spoke coldly, and Margaery thought of the young girl she’d once known, her naïve look on love. Sansa truly had grown up. “Joffrey, Ramsay… I’m done with all that. There are no good men, and I’d rather remain a widow the rest of my life than risk ending up with anyone like them again.”

“There are good men, Sansa,” Margaery said, snaking her arm in lock with Sansa’s as they walked together. “Lord Baelish saved you from the capital, right? He spoke so fondly of you the last time I saw him. He’s wealthy, handsome-”

“He’s also dead,” Sansa interrupted Margaery, who almost stopped in her tracks. She looked at Sansa with a confused expression, unsure what to say.

“Dead?”

“I had him executed a moon ago,” Sansa muttered, sneaking a glance at Margaery, who shook her head.

“There’s got to be some kind of mistake here, sweet Sansa,” she said, still shaking her head with a confused grin on her face. “Excuse me for disagreeing with you, but I met Petyr Baelish at an inn just outside Torrhens Square a fortnight ago. We spoke long and well, he recognized me and we shared a table for the night. He informed me of what happens all around the kingdoms, and I told him of what happened at the sept-”

“You must’ve met an impersonator. Lord Baelish bled out on the floor in the great hall, I watched him die and my sister held the blade.” Sansa stood still, not sure where to look.

“Sansa,” Margaery said, turning towards the woman and taking both of her hands in her own. “I know who I met – I know lord Baelish quite well, and I know who I shared a table with that night. He talked about you, fondly and proudly.”

Sansa kept quiet; she didn’t know what to say. No words would leave her mouth, and she wondered what was really happening. She knew Petyr Baelish was dead, she’d made sure of that herself. _How far can a ghost move?_ she found herself wondering before shrugging the thought off, realizing how ridiculous she sounded.

“I’m sorry Margaery, but that’s not possible,” Sansa said calmly, to which the slightly shorter woman nodded.

“Of course, my lady,” she responded, nodding her head. “I just want to make sure I forward the message Pe- _the man_ left me to give you. In case it has any meaning to you, at all,” Margaery said carefully, and Sansa watched her with an equally careful glance.

Sansa wasn’t sure she wanted to hear, but she felt an urge that almost forced her. “What message?”

Margaery glanced down at her hands before meeting Sansa’s icy gaze. “He wanted me to tell you that you were right,” she said, her voice hesitant. “You always knew what he wanted.”

“I’m sorry, your grace,” Sansa said out of old habit. Her mind was now on auto-pilot, and she began stepping backwards carefully. “If you’ll excuse me.”

“Of course,” Margaery said, bowing slightly to Sansa, who hurried down the hallway towards her chamber. She opened the door by pushing her body against it, letting it slam behind her. She vomited twice in her chamber pot, holding her long, red hair up with now trembling fingers.

The image of red, thick blood against a cold stone floor etched itself into her mind, the whisper of her name that he’d uttered right before the sound of Arya’s blade opening his throat was stuck in her head. _He’s dead_ , she chanted in her mind, but a subtle voice in the back of her head soon responded. _Do you want him to be?_ She couldn’t answer it truthfully, so she merely pushed it away.

She laid on her bed and fell asleep soon, the panic and fear in her body leaving her drained of energy. _Could he be alive?_ No, he couldn’t. _Why did it seem like he was?_ She didn’t know. Soon as she closed her eyes, images of red blood and grey eyes haunted her, and she couldn’t help but wonder if she’d really seen them for the last time.


	3. the Stranger

“I’ll have a bowl of venison stew, and your best room for the night.”

The hood hung low over his face, and he imagined only his lips would be visible under the heavy fabric. It was for the best – he hadn’t yet heard word of his supposed execution, but he knew it was soon to come. He needed to make sure he stayed as hidden as he could, to make sure his journeys went as he planned.

A key was given to him, but no further response. He appreciated it, and soon made his way over to a table in the corner of the inn, somewhat secluded from the otherwise quite crowded room. Sellswords and soldiers traveled quite frequently over the Kings Road those days, and the last thing Petyr wanted was to get spotted by someone who knew his face and had heard word of his death.

For the first time in long, he had no real plan, besides staying hidden until the day that he did. It was excruciating in a way, staying in place and not being able to decide which road to go down. He’d had his gaze locked on the top of the hill for so long, without glancing around him. Petyr Baelish had missed a few very important details on his journey to the top, that almost cost him his life. _Thank the gods for that Stark-boy, and his backhanded warning,_ he thought to himself, thinking of the look Bran Stark had given him when he repeated the words Petyr had said so many years ago.

_Chaos is a ladder._

He grabbed the spoon swiftly when the bowl of stew was placed in front of him, and hungry as he was, he began to dig in without much thought of the flavor. He’d always preferred seafood to game, probably much due to his childhood in Riverrun. He disliked the texture of meat, but anything would do for the hungry man right then – the stew was godsent in that moment, purely by the feeling of warm food in his belly.

It was pleasant in a way, to not _have_ to do anything – he was wealthy enough to manage for the rest of his life without struggle if he wanted, but ultimately, he knew it wouldn’t do. He was an ambitious man, and with the help from Brandon Stark, he’d managed to hold on to the ladder, even when Sansa had tried to kick it away from below him.

He didn’t know what the Stark-boy had expected, but Petyr had taken the warning seriously from the moment he’d opened his mouth. He had almost been able to hear the sand of the hourglass run out, and with that, his mind began to roam. The coin he’d been given so long ago by his father had become his lifeline, and its value had been enough to have someone else take his place, for a while. He had a hard time grasping what kind of meaning a coin could have for someone, to have them willingly die for you. It didn’t matter – Petyr lived, and it was all he needed.

Watching his own execution had been a bold move, but it felt like it was just what he needed, to keep his mind straight. A part of him told himself that maybe he wouldn’t have believed she’d do it if he hadn’t seen it for himself. He would be lying if he said it hadn’t been damaging in a way – after all, he couldn’t imagine many things more horrifying than seeing yourself die, just twenty feet ahead. He’d spent many nights sleepless since, thinking and trying without success to ignore the color of crimson blood from his mind, how it had seeped out over the tiles like molasses, slow and dark.

Nonetheless, Petyr found something new to motivate him. He’d been power-hungry, desperate to climb the ladder up towards the throne he’d watched to many times before. Now, Petyr was angry, hungry for revenge. Now, he didn’t know how he wanted to do it yet, simply because his feelings towards the Stark-woman were confusing, to say the least.

He often found himself roaming his mind, trying to figure out the exact moment where he lost her. She’d moved so swiftly at his command, _until she didn’t._ It had always been Petyr’s weakness – he was so blinded by what he wanted to see, by the love he thought he received, that he couldn’t see how she defied him, began to break free of his grip.

 _Little dove,_ Petyr thought with a huff as the nickname she’d been granted by the queen and her court. Sansa was no little dove – she was a phoenix, created from the pain and the suffering people put her through for years and years. Burnt from the grief of her family’s suffering, born in the ashes of her former self – young, impressionable and naïve. There was no sign of that girl anymore. She was now bold, calculated and clever – much like himself, Petyr noted with a small smile.

_Thank you for the many lessons, lord Baelish. I’ll never forget them._

Petyr ate without much pleasure, merely chewing and swallowing in a monotone pattern. He was tired; he’d quickly realized that life on the run was nothing for him. His first moments away from Winterfell, he’d steered his horse straight for Kings Landing. The information he held was enough to put him on the good with Cersei and return to the court, and Petyr knew that was more valuable than gold. Then his mind had steered back to Sansa, and he knew right away that he could never do anything like it to her.

It frustrated him to no end, knowing that it was a weakness he had to accept. It had always been Catelyn, and ironically enough he saw that she was now his weakness as well. It’d been easy to call it a game when she stood below him and he pulled the strings, but now when she was so far away, he could see it for what it really was, and it was devastating for him, to see how easily he fell for the deceiving image of a beautiful woman, once again.

He set his spoon down with a thud, and soon stood up to find the room he was given. He was bound to sleep restlessly as he had since his escape from the Starks, but any rest would be necessary for him at that point. He pushed the door open after unlocking the dry and dark old door, and found to his satisfaction that a desk sat within the room. He took out the parchment he’d carried with him and sat down at the desk, taking the quill in hand to begin the message he so eagerly had been waiting to send.

Down on the Kings Road, a man rode slowly, trying to not provoke the ache in his side from the deep wound he’d gotten just weeks earlier. It had been cleaned and sown, but the stitches yanked with every movement the horse made, and the healing would need a lot of time.

Sandor Clegane moved, for the first time in his life, without purpose. He knew he wasn’t supposed to be there, and truthfully, he hadn’t expected to live for so long. It would’ve been poetic, in some kind of twisted way, dragging his brother with him to the deepest part of hell, where the both of them belonged. Now, he’d outlived his brother, and he had no idea where to go from there.

Stranger moved slower and slower beneath him, and he realized that soon enough he’d need to stop, and figure out where he was going. He’d made many enemies on his journeys through the Seven Kingdoms, but not many friends – truth be told, he wondered if he’d be welcome anywhere nowadays.

It was a strange relief to realize that he was finally no longer subject to his brother’s torture, after thirty years of torment and pain. He wondered who he’d be if he hadn’t had a brother, but soon discouraged the thought – there was no point in thinking of it. His scars would serve as a reminder to him of Gregor’s foul nature for the rest of his life, however long it would be. It almost made him anxious, thinking of living a long life, doing things that would be considered normal to others, things he’d never even considered – he’d never known a purpose besides vengeance, and the people to avenge seemed to be running low.

He thought of the Stark-girl and the little list of hers, and he grinned to himself. Word traveled quickly over the Kingdoms, and he wondered to himself if she had anything to do with the murder of Meryn Trant in a Braavosi brothel. After hearing her chant his name like a spell each night during their travels, he realized that stranger things had happened. She was filled with anger, and he wouldn’t be the slightest bit surprised if she was finally getting outburst for it.

They were so different, Arya and her sister. _Sansa Stark, the little bird,_ he thought to himself, and he remembered how frustratingly gracefully she always carried herself, even when she was being backhanded and kicked by the kingsguard, ordered by her _beloved_ Jeoffrey. She’d been taught by the very best how to act like a proper lady, and Sandor had never been able to understand why she took it all. Only now he realized she played as much of a game as anyone else, and though he never would understand the politics and the shadow-games of the power-dynamics of the lords and ladies, he knew that she did.

He’d heard rumors, whispers at taverns and inns of Sansa Stark, then Sansa Lannister, and finally Sansa Bolton – wed to the bastard son of Roose Bolton, who executed her mother and brother. The whisperers had spoken words of abuse, torture and rape – things he didn’t even want to imagine being done to the little bird he’d known so many years ago.

The Starks once again held their Winterfell and the Bolton-family had been wiped out, but Sandor knew, deep down, that she wasn’t a little bird any longer, much like he suspected that her younger sister wasn’t a child with a sword anymore. He wondered if he was still on that stupid little list of hers, and the thought managed to put a grin on his face. She’d tried a fair amount of times, and each time he’d whacked her away like a fly – something told him that if she wanted to try again now, he wouldn’t be standing for long. _Hate is as good a thing as any to keep a person going._

He’d grown used to the snow by then. He’d been riding for weeks, and subconsciously his path always seemed to lead further north. He knew where he wanted to go, he just wasn’t sure he was welcome there. Nonetheless, he supposed it didn’t matter much, since he knew he had nothing to lose.

He had seen so much on his travels, but the thing that he couldn’t wipe from his mind was the sight of Beric Dondarrion rising after he’d put his sword through him. He’d never believed in the gods, and speaking of religion had always angered him – seeing the dead man arise had caused him more thought than he’d like to admit, and he could no longer bring himself to deny the existence of gods, at least in his mind. He often found himself wondering if his purpose had been served the day he killed his brother, or if the Lord of Light had other plans for him, too. He wasn’t about to die to find out, but the thought did occupy his mind more than he’d admit.

“A little while longer, boy,” Sandor said as he called on his horse, deciding to keep his pace up for a while longer, in hope of finding an inn to grant him some warm food and a pitcher of wine. The two kept riding on, the Stranger and the hound, trying to find a new purpose in a world that had disregarded the man his entire life. A small smile settled on his face as he thought of the castle he’d visited all those years ago, and he allowed himself to dream of what that purpose of his might be.


	4. the Sisters

Sansa went on as per usual, trying but failing to not think about Petyr, and the words Margaery had spoken to her just days earlier. As much as she wanted to believe that it was a mistake, it was next to impossible to convince herself of it. She’d learned a lot over the years, and most of all not to underestimate an opponent – she didn’t know where she had lord Baelish, and quite frankly, she wasn’t even sure she’d successfully had him killed. It was almost torturous – not so much fear, but more of a dismay that he might’ve been one step ahead of her, when she thought she’d finally managed to put him in his place.

She couldn’t deny that a part of her was excited. Her mind created intricate outplays, scenarios and explanations, and it entertained Sansa to some extent. She knew in her heart it was impossible, and she’d more or less come to terms with that the man was gone, but the uncertainty of the situation forced her mind to keep roaming.

The logical reasons behind the situation were few, but promising. Maybe lady Margaery had gotten the days jumbled up on her journeys, and really, her and Petyr met longer ago. Just before the execution, Petyr was away for a while – it would make sense that the two would’ve crossed roads at some point. However, that didn’t explain the message he’d given her.

Sansa imagined that it wasn’t impossible that Petyr had figured out what was coming for him, though she knew he would’ve fled if he did – he was cowardly and afraid, and he cared more about himself than anyone. She tried to keep it out of her head, but her mind almost constantly seemed to drift to the faces in Arya’s bag, and she wondered what it all meant.

“Lady Stark,” a voice spoke, and Sansa straightened out quickly from her slouching position over the table. She looked up and saw Margaery stand before her, dressed in one of Sansa’s warm gowns with a cloak over her shoulders. She wore a smile on her lips, though concern was visible in her eyes. Whatever it was she was thinking of, she kept to herself. “May I join you?”

“Of course,” Sansa said, gesturing to the seat opposite her. The food stood before her, untouched, and she realized to her dismay that she’d once again gotten carried away by her thoughts. Margaery sat down gracefully, filling her plate with her picks to break her fast with.

“I hear that your brother is to return today,” Margaery said, to which Sansa nodded as she began poking with her cutlery at a piece of sausage.

“He is, for a while,” she responded, looking up at Margaery who seemed to relish in the hearty breakfast. “He’s planning on heading to Dragonstone to make a deal with Daenerys Targaryen, to get her help in the war to come.”

Margaery noted Sansa’s tone, which she remembered she’d heard before at the mention of the dragon-queen. She put her cutlery down for a moment, glancing carefully at the Stark-woman. “Don’t you think she’ll be a good asset when the dead come?”

“I think she’ll be a great asset,” Sansa said, nodding her head. “But I know she’ll want something in return for it. She’ll want Jon to pledge himself to her, and he’s going to be willing to do so.”

“Maybe that’s what needs to be done,” Margaery suggested, suddenly thankful to be back around Sansa and being given the opportunity to talk so openly about matters such as the one they discussed – Sansa and her had often spoken freely with each other, and it was truly relieving to just be with someone as a friend.

“I know,” Sansa said, hesitantly. “I just don’t know if I trust her.”

“You’ve changed a lot since I last saw you,” Margaery smiled. “I remember when you were set to marry my brother, how captivated you were with him and the idea of love. That girl seems to just be a memory gone now.”

“Afraid so,” Sansa muttered. “I suppose that I’ll grow old and grumpy and lonely – by the looks of it, that’s where I’m headed.”

“Don’t worry sweet Sansa,” Margaery sang out, smiling at the girl in front of her. “I’ll he here to keep you company, nonetheless.”

“I’m glad you’re finally here,” Sansa said with a smile, placing her cold hand on Margaery’s while looking her in the eyes. “I’ve missed you, the way we can speak honestly with each other. It’s different with the people here – they see me as their lady, I could never confide in them the way I can with you.”

“I feel the same way,” Margaery smirked, grabbing a hold of Sansa’s fingers delicately. “No matter what happens, you’re my sister,” she said, soon picking up her cutlery to continue eating her breakfast. “I think you’ll know how to handle Daenerys when the time comes. Declare your independence and support her claim – it could be enough.”

“I’ll have to speak to Jon about it when he gets back,” Sansa said, looking off in the distance. “Technically, I would want to support your claim.”

“Oh, sweet Sansa,” Margaery chuckled, smiling at her. “I don’t want a crown, and I certainly don’t want to go back to live in Kings Landing – I mean, the smell,” Margaery made a face that made Sansa’s lips tug upwards. “Besides, the king is dead. Without him, I would say Cersei has the stronger claim, even though I-”

Margaery cut herself off, catching Sansa’s attention. “What?”

“Nothing, I spoke ahead of my mind,” Margaery replied, but Sansa wouldn’t take it.

“Margaery, what is it?” she asked again, but soon her eyes widened. “Are you pregnant?”

Margaery kept quiet, looking down at the table before glancing up at Sansa with eyes that spoke the whole truth. She didn’t know how far she was gone, but there was no doubt about it. “Is it Tommen’s?”

“Of course it is, silly girl,” Margaery said, grinning.

“That changes everything,” Sansa said, standing up from the table. “You’re carrying the prince – that means that you’re still the queen, not Cersei. If the people found out-”

“Which they won’t,” Margaery said, shaking her head. “I almost died last time I went against Cersei, I lost most of my family. My grandmother- I have no idea where she is. You’re the last person I have left, Sansa – I’m not leaving here to make a claim to some ugly, old throne.”

“It’s about more than the throne! It’s about putting Cersei in her place, at last. You’d have the people behind you, after what she did to the city and all who live there. She’s hated by most of the-”

“Sansa, that’s enough,” Margaery said, kindly but with a stern tone. In all honesty, Margaery knew Sansa was right – by the laws she had the strongest claim to the throne, but it worried her that Sansa was getting so riled up about it. If they were going to have any chance to get the help from Daenerys Targaryen to deal with the Great war, they had to please the mother of dragons – introducing a new opponent to the throne, with a stronger claim than hers, was not going to be helpful.

The two women dropped the subject, and began eating in a pressing silence. Sansa was shocked, but positively so. She was tired of putting her trust into strangers, and she never wanted to bow to another tyrant. She knew nothing of the dragon-queen, but she knew Margaery better than most. She was kind, loving and intelligent. She was the perfect candidate for a queen, a woman of the people, who cared about the most unfortunate as much as she could. She was the opposite of Cersei, and it made Sansa grin when she thought of what Cersei’s face would look like when she found out Margaery was not only alive, but carrying her grandson.

She was getting ahead of herself and she knew it. But suddenly, all seemed to make sense to Sansa. Not only having Margaery as queen of the Seven Kingdoms, but having her closest friend as regent. It was the perfect opportunity for Sansa.

She frowned when she found herself beginning to sound like Petyr, conspiring and planning for her own gain. She told herself that it was for the good of the realm to have a leader like Margaery, but she knew that she wasn’t being completely honest with herself. She focused her mind and looked down to her plate, thinking of the real problem at hand – the dead were marching towards them, and they’d need all the help they could get. Most of all they’d need a ceasefire with Cersei, and that wouldn’t happen if she knew Margaery was alive; she’d go to war just to make sure the Tyrell-family was wiped out of existence, and of that Sansa was completely sure.

“You have that look on your face again,” Margaery suddenly said, and Sansa lifted her gaze quickly to look at the woman across the table.

“What look?” Sansa responded, to which Margaery smirked.

“The look you get when you’re planning something,” she responded, to which Sansa smiled.

“Ah, don’t worry about it,” Sansa responded with her lips turned upwards in the slightest of smile. “It’s only mutiny.”


	5. the King in the North

“Jon Snow is approaching the hold!”

Sansa stood ready, with lady Margaery at her side. They heard the sound of the approaching horses before they saw them, but soon her brother and his following appeared in their line of sight. Next to him rode the onion knight and the wildling, who’d become his right-hand men, ser Davos and Tormund Giantsbane.

Sansa hand grown familiar with them both, but she’d found herself more and more uncomfortable in the lone presence of men – she would never admit it, but the fear of once again being used, beat and humiliated lingered long inside her bones, and though a tough front would hide it from most, Margaery had grown aware of her wavering confidence. Margaery had realized she knew Sansa better than most, though they’d spent years apart.

Sansa caught sight of her sister, standing as she so often did, with her hands behind her back and an expression of stone settling over her face. She looked over at Sansa, nodding her head in acknowledgement as their gazes met briefly, before she looked ahead once again, and Sansa thought she could see a sliver of anxiousness pass over her face. Sansa thought about it and realized it had been seven years since Arya last saw her beloved brother, and now only a hundred yards of snow-covered soil was separating them.

As soon as Jon caught sight of his sister he was off his horse, moving swiftly towards her with a crease between his eyebrows. Arya met him, hugging him tighter than Sansa could ever imagine her sister hugging her, and a jab of jealousy ever-so-briefly hit her, though she brushed it off.

The redhaired woman never let the two go with her gaze, and when her brother and sister turned their attention towards her, she smiled ever so slightly. She looked over at Margaery who mirrored her expression, before she curtsied before lord Snow.

“Your grace,” she said, and Sansa was struck with how graceful every move lady Margaery made was. She smiled at Jon, nodding her head ever so slightly at him. “It’s an honor to finally meet you – your sister has spoken well of you, and your kindness.”

Jon looked at Sansa with a questioning gaze, asking her silently who stood before him. “Jon, this is lady Margaery Tyrell,” Sansa said, glancing at the fair woman next to her. Jon’s expression changed, and a look of shock went over his features.

“Your grace,” he said, bowing to her, to which Margaery smiled briefly. “I received word of the fall of the Sept of Baelor long ago,” he said, looking at Margaery carefully, who merely smiled. “My sister has spoken well of you too, and I’m glad to see you in good health.”

Sansa smiled, glad to see her family gathered. Looking over her shoulder she could see Bran lingering behind them, watching carefully the people who entered through the gates of their home.

“Your grace,” Jon began, but Margaery shook her head.

“There’s no need for titles, Jon Snow,” she said, a small smile on her lips. “I’m no longer queen, because my husband is dead, and to the world, so am I. I’m here to support you in any way I can, to ensure our win in the great war.”

Sansa itched to tell them what she knew, of the child that grew inside Margaery’s stomach, but she held her tongue, through loyalty for her friend. She hoped she’d one day change her mind, but until that day, Sansa could only stand by her and support her through the coming times.

“As you will, my lady,” Jon said, nodding his head. “May I ask, how did you find yourself this far north?”

“Sansa has always been kind to me, and I regard her as my closest friend,” Margaery spoke, looking over at Sansa with a small smile before once again looking at the dark-haired man before her. “After the attempt at my life I found myself alone, and without question I knew that Sansa would help me. Though we may view things differently politically,” Margaery gave Sansa a pointed glance, to which Sansa shrugged her shoulders with a smile, “I know she’ll always help me.”

“At my queen’s service,” Sansa said, earning an eye roll from Margaery.

“Silly girl,” she said, but soon returned her attention to the newly arrived company.

Sansa heard the rest of the conversation, but purely as a distant noise. Her gaze traveled over the knight and the wildling, who seemed to permanently move with Jon. She soon saw a movement behind them, and her focus shifted quickly. A black shadow moved, sharp and dark against the pale snow, large and taunting. No matter how large or how dark, the shadow could never scare her.

She looked around to see Arya, and caught her sister staring at the man and the horse approaching, with a crease between her eyebrows. Sansa had heard the tale long before she met her sister again, but Arya had confirmed it to her – Brienne of Tarth had bested the Hound in a battle, and Arya had left him for dead after. Sansa could read the cold confusion over Arya’s face, even though she wouldn’t speak about it. There he was, in flesh and blood, coming towards them. 

Sansa remembered her days in King's Landing as if it had merely been a week since she escaped, and the mere appearance of the Hound approaching left her overwhelmed with emotions. She'd been treated like garbage for so long, any act of kindness had made her heart flutter back then. She remembered Sandor Clegane's careful hands as he wiped blood from her lip, his soft voice as he told her he'd never hurt her - his soft lips against hers on the night of the Blackwater, as he kissed her before he fled the keep. 

“I think you have some guests to tend to,” Sansa managed to finally utter, interrupting her brother who spoke with lady Margaery with a smile on his face. It was rare for Sansa to see the joyful expression decorate the face of her brother, and she figured it could only mean one of a few things. She looked at Margaery with a knowing expression before averting her attention back to Jon, who looked over his shoulders at the company approaching.

“That’s the Hound,” he spoke, and Sansa nodded her head. “What could he be doing here?”

“He’s with ser Beric Dondarrion,” Sansa filled in, “and I think that’s Thoros of Myr.” She looked at Arya who stood with a blank expression, watching the approaching group carefully, and Sansa wondered just what happened to her, during the years they spent apart.

Jon approached the company, greeting them and inviting them to the castle. She wanted to speak to him, help him like he helped her so many years ago, but it was too personal to even greet him around the others. Sandor Clegane represented a time in her life she'd never speak of to her sister and brother, and she wouldn't let the people of Winterfell see her weak, after just having gained their trust and faith. So, Sansa watched for a moment before she turned towards her sister, trying her hardest to push away his scarred face, and think of the matters at hand. “Arya.”

She glanced up at Sansa, nodding her head in a small and barely noticeable movement. Sansa watched her for a moment before glancing over her shoulder at the approaching group. “I need to speak with you.” Sansa moved her attention over to Margaery, seeing how she smiled carefully at her good friend. 

“If you don’t mind, lady Sansa, I’ll stay out a while. I would like to introduce myself to the approaching company, and I might spend some more time with your brother.”

Sansa sent a knowing look to Margaery, grinning smugly, though she merely nodded her head in response. “Very well,” she said, turning around. She glanced over her shoulder one more time and found that she met Sandor Clegane's searching gaze for a moment, before she forcefully looked away, glancing at Arya, who watched Sansa carefully.

“What?” Arya asked, asking about Sansa's smug expression.

“Couldn’t you see Jon’s face?” Sansa said, chuckling. “Margaery didn’t seem to be disinterested, either. Interesting, for sure.”

“Do you trust her, then?” Arya said, showing her deep love for her brother by trying to make sure his decisions were wise. Sansa nodded, looking ahead of her.

“I do,” she said, nodding. “More than most. She’s kind and warm-hearted, but still clever and strategic. She managed to control and manipulate not only Tommen but Jeoffrey as well.”

“I trust your judgement,” Arya said, nodding her head. “I’m just not sure I trust Jon’s.”

“I know,” Sansa said, nodding her head. “He’s too loyal for his own good sometimes.”

A smile spread over Arya’s face for just a moment, but it was gone as soon as it had appeared. The two sisters walked in a calm pace, and soon enough they entered Sansa’s chambers together.

Arya immediately walked over to her desk, looking at things with a curiosity Sansa’s sister had always possessed. Sansa watched her for a moment before turning a bit to the side. “Tell me about the faceless men.”

Arya seemed surprised at first, but soon regained the calm exterior she so often carried. “Why do you want to know about them?”

“I will tell you afterwards if I find the information relevant to the matter,” Sansa spoke, and Arya nodded after a moment of consideration.

“They’re assassins,” Arya begun, turning around to look at her sister. “Serving the many-faced god. They will kill anyone for the right price, and they believe that the contract made between a faceless man and the one who wishes to have someone killed is sacred and connected to the god.”

“ _’They’_ , you say,” Sansa pointed out. “Aren’t you a faceless man?”

“A faceless man has no identity,” Arya said, glancing around the room. “A faceless man is no one, and I am someone. I couldn’t forget about my family and my life here, and I couldn’t forget about my list and the names on it,” Arya continued.

“If the faceless men are assassins, why couldn’t you…” Sansa paused for a moment, “complete your list?”

“I couldn’t take a name that the many-faced god hadn’t given me,” Arya said. “I was only allowed to kill those he told me to.”

“Why would you want to kill people?” Sansa asked, her voice showing her genuine distaste for the idea of it all.

“If you knew where I’ve been these years, you’d realize that it isn’t so strange.”

Sansa thought she should respond, but soon decided against it. She merely nodded, glancing away from Arya’s eyes that seemed to be lacking something that she’d known when they were kids.

“So, what is it that you were asking for?”

Sansa thought for a moment, but soon let out a small sigh. She had so many thoughts in her head, and it made it difficult for her to process information, but she tried nonetheless. “When Margaery arrived at Winterfell days ago, she told me something that I found… concerning.” Arya looked at her with raised eyebrows, urging her to continue, which Sansa soon did. “She told me she- she met lord Baelish at a tavern outside Torrhens square just under three weeks ago.”

“So?” Arya said, shrugging her shoulders. “Could be someone claiming to be him. It means nothing.”

“I said that, too. But then she told me he left her a message for me, one that I’m sure came straight from Littlefinger’s mouth,” Sansa said, feeling uncomfortable as she finally let her mind accept her concerns. She’d tried to push it away, but he always lingered in the back of her mind. “He should be dead – I know it. But what if he isn’t?”

Arya thought for a moment, looking at Sansa with a blank expression, the only emotion she showed appeared through a crease between her eyebrows. She kept silent for several moments, and Sansa felt naked beneath her gaze. “Do you want him to be?”

The same question Sansa had asked herself so many times. She couldn’t deny that she felt safer without him around, lingering around her and watching carefully at every moment. She’d felt strong with Bran and Arya by her side, but she knew that a part of her died with Petyr Baelish – he was part of her, after she’d lived under his influence for so long.

“I don’t know.”

Arya nodded, her hands moving behind her back and connecting as she stood straight in front of her sister. “Alright,” she said, nodding. “I only know what I’ve seen, and it could mean nothing.”

“What?” Sansa said, a crease forming between her eyebrows as she listened to her sister.

“Before Littlefinger was executed, I saw him out on the yard, hidden in the shadows between buildings,” Arya said, looking Sansa sharp in the eyes. “He was with a young girl, and they were speaking, clearly cautious. He handed her a Braavosi coin, and I heard him tell her _‘your time is up.’_ She took the coin and hurried off, and after that, I left. I assumed it was merely one of his many sketchy business.”

Sansa was in pure shock. She stared ahead of her, a shaky breath entering her lungs slowly. She watched Arya, seeing her sister observe her. “Do you think he hired a faceless man?”

“It’s possible,” Arya said, nodding her head. “Any faceless man would die if their name was the one given to the many-faced god. They can take the face of anyone, if that is what the buyer wants. We both know that Littlefinger could afford it.”

Sansa felt completely exposed at Arya’s words, more and more as she realized how much sense it made. Petyr Baelish was always one step ahead – why wouldn’t he be when it was about his life? Sansa heard her own shaky breath, and realized she felt completely drained of energy suddenly.

“What did he tell Margaery?” Arya said, looking at her distraught sister. “The message he wanted to give to you?”

“He told her I always knew what he wanted,” Sansa said, thinking of Petyr’s grey eyes, smug expression, soft lips. She felt stupid for ever believing she caught him in a trap, realizing that she was the one being fooled all along. She’d underestimated him once again, and wondered if she would ever catch up with him. She smiled briefly, supposing she’d know soon enough. “I guess that’s up for show, now.”

“Hm?” Arya said, and Sansa merely smiled, her blue eyes focused on her sister.

“I suppose we’ll know if I know lord Baelish well enough,” Sansa spoke, turning and walking towards the window in her room. “I believe I haven’t seen him for the last time, after all.”


End file.
